Stacked Deck
by LithiumAddict
Summary: Rogue. Remy. Vignettes. Number 12: A Mess, I Guess. For a while, she'd actually thought there'd been something there.
1. Red

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** I had some time and some ideas. Therefore, you're getting the first of what will probably be a good deal of R/R flavoured vignettes. As you can guess from the title, there will likely be 52 when all is said and done.

This whole project is inspired by Lucia de Medici's "Arcana Catalouge", NessieGG's "Sides of the Same Coin", and all of the other amazing ficlet collections I've read. Thank you all for some fantastic reads.

This drabble in particular is dedicated to the ever-so-lovely GreenAmber. Miss you like crazy, dahling.

* * *

It was supposed to be an easy mission. But of course, whenever that particular cliché is applied, it never is.

Take out the sentinels, Xavier said. It shouldn't prove to be exceedingly difficult, he said.

_Hah_, Rogue thinks to herself from the small corner she's found to hide in. _I call bullshit on that._

She doesn't swear often, but feels that today it's justified considering that her communicator is broken, she doesn't know where the rest of the team is, the sentinels are still out there, and her leg is cut wide open and bleeding like nobody's business.

What's worse is that she can't feel it. Oh, she knows that it's painful, but it's that detached sort of pain that's more a matter of the intellect than the physical.

Which means that it's going to hurt like a bitch tomorrow.

She bites back on a curse and down on her lip, trying to ascertain the damage. She guesses from the sheer amount of blood that it's a superficial wound, but damned if she has anything to clean it up with.

She prods at it without really knowing why.

Her makeshift examination is interrupted by a familiar voice.

"I leave you alone for three minutes . . . "

She looks up to see the latest addition to the X-Men roster and his trenchcoat.

"Hah, hah," she mutters, though honestly, she's grateful to have found someone. Or rather, to have had someone find her.

Gambit's eyes shift towards her leg and narrow critically. He's down on the ground next to her in seconds, shifting her leg so he can have a closer look.

She's expecting some stupid comment, a jab of some sort. Anything but what actually happens.

He's taking off his coat and ripping a long and wide strip at the bottom.

"I don't have a first aid kit," he qualifies, and for some reason it strikes her as odd that he's apologizing.

He rips open the leg of her uniform from the gash around her wound and she doesn't think she's ever been more thankful that he wears gloves.

He takes the strip and with a deftness that shouldn't surprise her (and yet it does), sets to wrapping the wound tightly in a rather professional looking field-dressing. He ties the 'bandage' off, and inspects his handiwork briefly. It receives a nod.

"This'll hold 'til we can get you back to the mansion. You good to walk?"

Rogue runs her hand over the bandage. It's solid, and she knows that this assessment of his handiwork is a little bit of an understatement. This thing would probably hold until the second coming were it given the chance.

"You've done this before," she murmurs, the name Etienne drifting lazily across her consciousness. A memory rises up, chasing the name like a dog might chase a butterfly.

_A boy. Young. Thirteen, maybe? Blonde, blue-eyed. Cousin. Tilling. Accident. No! This wasn't supposed to happen. Blood, so much blood, oh God how do you stop it? Hang on Etienne, hang on! Blood, everywhere, red, red, so red just hang on . . . _

Remy is looking at her blankly, his expression one she would expect were she to start speaking in tongues. His face falls.

It's then she realizes that she'd whispered the name aloud.

"Wasn't so fast that time," he says darkly.

She hangs her head too as the picture starts filling itself in. _A tomb. Cold stone. A marker. Etienne Marceaux. Requisat In Pacem._

"I'm sorry."

She risks a glance towards him. His face has hardened now, and he waves her off as though it's no big deal before standing up and offering her a hand.

She wants to hit him for the lie. _So much blood, red, red, Requisat In Pacem. . ._

She takes his hand anyways, and the two of them hobble back towards the safety of the Blackbird.


	2. SunriseSunset

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** This one goes out to Ish. 'Cause she digs my work.

* * *

Lovers are supposed to watch sunsets. At least that's what the novels, the movies, and the Hallmark cards say.

Well, they're not lovers.

They're _not._

And they're not speaking to each other today.

The reasons are simple.

He lied. Again. (Though he would describe it as misdirection out of necessity.)

She didn't give him a chance to explain. Again. (Though she would say he didn't deserve to be heard out in the first place.)

"_You weren't supposed to find out."_

"_Well, I did. And I am __**not**__ happy."_

"_Really? I couldn't tell."_

"_Stop making this in to a joke!"_

Harsh words were exchanged before the two stormed off in opposite directions, each muttering unkind things about the other. They barricaded themselves in their rooms and complained to their roommates about how hard-headed he/she is, and how if he/she would listen to them/be frigging honest/just trust them for once, maybe this could work. Would work.

Maybe.

_Neither of them shows up for dinner. Which surprises no-one._

"_This'll all blow over by tomorrow," Kitty predicts sagely, holding her fork rather like a scepter. "Just you wait and see." _

_Piotr gives a little 'hmmm' while shoving some rice about his plate. He doesn't sound so convinced._

The evening passes.

Night falls away.

The sun begins to rise.

Neither has slept well.

Rogue has been busy cultivating righteous fury, and Remy has been hanging on to justified indignation with a side of poorly feigned apathy.

_Kitty and Piotr find each other at breakfast and share their reports over cups of coffee and grapefruit halves. Kitty comes to a conclusion._

"_The two of them need to be locked in a closet or something and be forced to talk with each other until they work out this stupid…"_

_She waves her hand about in an expansive gesture, searching for a word to attach to whatever 'this' is. She comes up blank and sighs. Piotr nods. He gets it._

Unbeknownst to the pair in question, each of them is sitting in their respective windows, watching the same new morning being born.

Same sunrise, different angles.

They say lovers watch sunsets.

So who watches sunrises?


	3. Venice is Sinking

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Dedicated to Lucia and her love affair with _La __Nouvelle-Orléans_. Thanks for your amazing writing, your encouragement in the form of sweet reviews and finger-pointing. 'Tis much appreciated.

Feel free to listen to "Venice Is Sinking" by Spirit of the West while reading this . . . though it's not necessary. It's just the song that got this bit done.

* * *

He has been sitting in front of the television for what's probably about five hours now. It's not like there's anything new on it – they've been playing the same footage over and over all day now, the only difference being the paraphrased commentary. He's even picked up on the rhythm of this particular station's broadcast. Right now it's the crying woman and the kid with the glazed over eyes. Next will be the long, slow, and exploitive pan along one of the countless flooded streets. After that will be the latest from the sober-faced anchor, who will likely use words like 'unprecedented scope' and 'national emergency'.

And let's not forget _tragedy._ They especially seem to like that one.

A quick glance at the VCR informs him that he's been sitting here for longer than he thought – it's going on six and a half hours of the same damn images over and over. And yet, he doesn't really feel inclined to stop watching.

Henri used to relish reminding Remy of how big a masochist he was. It had been a gag, never meant at all seriously, but Remy is coming to believe that maybe there was something to it after all.

Katrina.

He'd dated a girl named Katrina once. She'd come on strong when they'd first met, and proved herself to be as clingy as saran wrap, though with none of the convenience. Their breakup had been exhausting – the waterworks that girl had put on . . . it almost seems appropriate now, in a twisted sort of way.

He wonders if Katrina made it out before the worst came.

He wonders if there would be a point to calling home.

He wonders if this is just some sick cosmic joke, a nightmare, a hallucination. The thumb and index finger of his right hand itch to pinch his arm and check.

As predicted, there's a return to the newsroom. The severe-faced woman sitting there with her stack of papers informs those just tuning in about the 'horrific tragedy' currently playing out in New Orleans.

Remy grimaces.

Tragedy.

He could very easily learn to hate that word.

There's a slight sniff to his left, and he's forced to blink once he looks towards it. It's Rogue, curled up at the far side of the couch and rubbing at her nose.

She's been sitting there the entire time, he realizes. She had sat down with him those six and a half hours ago, and proceeded to join him in gorging on the display of human misery that the media machine has churning out all day, and will likely continue to for some time yet.

Rogue had been so quiet that he'd actually forgotten her presence. He takes this for an indicator of how off he really is today.

Rogue is twisting at the fingers of her gloves. It's a nervous gesture that's got to be one of the worst tells he's ever seen. Any other place and time, he might have found it amusing. As if she could feel his eyes on her, Rogue looks over to him and offers a sad smile that has no air of realness about it at all.

He wants to say something.

He should say something.

But he can't.

Not now.

Because New Orleans – his home, his city – is drowning, and he's too busy hoping to hell that this is just some bad dream.


	4. Emma

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** With regards to this particular vignette - I'm not apologizing for my version of Emma (though her sister's name is actually canon). I'm also not apologizing for the fact that this is yet another unhappy one. So get over it and enjoy, y'hear?

This would be dedicated to Psychotherapy17 and her rabid, cannibal sock puppets.

* * *

Emma is seven.

She is blonde, she has blue eyes, and she lives with her mommy, daddy, and sisters.

And Spot too, though Daddy really doesn't like him much.

Last week a funny thing happened.

Emma was sitting and eating lunch when her sister Cordelia came in to the room crying. Even though her mouth didn't move, Emma could hear Cordelia speaking.

_I can't believe Craig broke up with me,_ she says.

Emma asked Cordelia why Craig broke up with her. Cordelia looked confused.

"How did you know?"

That's easy, Emma explained; you said it.

"I didn't say anything," Cordelia whispered.

A week later, Emma is being taken to a new school.

A boy and girl who introduce themselves as Rogue and Gambit come to the door that morning to pick her up. Emma answers it.

"Hi there," Rogue says, and she seems friendly. "Are you Emma?"

Emma nods, and after Rogue talks with mommy and daddy for a while, Gambit picks up Emma's bags and they all go out to the waiting car.

It's a long drive.

It gives Emma time to think.

She watches Gambit and Rogue from the backseat, and decides that they have very silly names. She notices that neither of them talk much.

At least with their mouths.

_Belladonna,_ says Gambit. _BelladonnaGeneviveRogue._

When he speaks without his mouth, it's quiet.

Gambit speaks some pictures to Emma too. She's not really sure if he's meaning to say them to her. She's not even sure if he knows he's saying them. She sees them anyway.

_**Belladonna.**_

There's a pretty blonde girl in a wedding dress. It's lacy, and looks like something that one of the princesses from Emma's storybooks would wear. There's blood on the dress, and that makes Emma a little sad. It's such a pretty dress. The girl is holding someone tight – a brunette boy, injured, gasping for breath. He's got a sword in his hand, but he's bleeding and Gambit is there as well. He's got a sword too, and he looks shocked and scared and Emma wants to hug him to make it better.

_**Genevive.**_

It's another pretty girl, though this one has dark hair. She's on the ground, and she looks like she's sleeping. Her neck is bent funny though, and her eyes don't look right and it feels like tears. Gambit is there again, kneeling beside her. He's got something shiny in his pocket, but he's not paying attention to that. There's another man there too, with a hand on Gambit's shoulder. He's biting his lip. Gambit is frightened again. Lost. Scared.

_**Rogue.**_

There's no picture for Rogue. There's confusion, frustration (Miss Newman taught her that word a couple weeks ago – Emma likes the way it sounds when she says it, but could never find a place to use it right. It fits here.), and a strange chant of _screw up, screw up, never going to get it right why try, screw up, screw up . . . _

This makes Emma feel sad. She can feel her chest tightening and she doesn't like it at all.

She turns her attention to Rogue. Maybe she'll have something nicer to say.

_Kurt, _says Rogue. _KurtCarolRemy._

Rogue is speaking pictures too. She crosses her fingers and sits on them as she starts to hear them (or is it seeing? She's not sure). Maybe, just maybe, they won't be as sad.

_**Kurt.**_

There's a cliff, and at the bottom of it are pieces of broken rock. Emma can see parts of a person there – a face, a leg, a hand. A blue boy is standing in the middle of the pieces and he is horrified (another word from Miss Newman), hurt, and looks like he wants to die. At the top of the cliff is Rogue, and she is turning to go. She looks hurt too, but Emma knows it's not the same kind.

_**Carol.**_

There's another blonde girl, but she's not the one from Gambit's pictures. She's shorter and skinnier than that one, and she's wearing a yellow shirt and black pants. She's lying in a hospital bed and her eyes are closed. She's not moving, she's not awake, and there's a chart on the end of the bed with a line that keeps going down. The girl's mouth is frowning, and Emma doesn't quite understand how you can frown in your sleep. Rogue is sitting next to the bed in a blue plastic chair. She's hugging herself, and her eyes are red and puffy like she's been crying for a really long time.

_**Remy.**_

Emma hears the name echo through her head, but like Gambit with Rogue, there is no picture. There's pain, there's hurting, and there's that same sort of confusion and fear that was in Gambit's pictures. It makes Emma feels like crying. She bites down hard on her tongue – it helps.

There's a chant here too, and it sounds a lot like Gambit's.

_Screw up, screw up, you always hurt the ones you love why even bother, screw up, screw up . . . _

Emma doesn't like this at all. She closes her eyes and plugs her ears and tries to sleep so she won't hear any more.

xXx

They arrive at the school and Gambit carries her bags for her again. The three of them go up a big set of stairs and down a hallway to a door. Rogue opens it, and there's a bed there with white blankets.

Emma likes the colour white.

Gambit sets her things down and goes to stand in the doorway with Rogue. After asking if she'll be okay, Rogue tells Emma that she should come find her down the hallway if she needs anything.

Rogue reaches for the doorknob and starts closing it.

"Gambit? Rogue?" Emma calls out, and both of them look back at her. "You guys aren't screw-ups." She tells them, and they look surprised.

Rogue's mouth opens and closes without actually saying anything. She looks kind of like Goldy, the fish in Miss Newman's classroom. Gambit just blinks, like he's not sure he's heard right.

"You're _not._" She promises them, just in case they weren't sure she meant what she said.

Rogue nods, looking like she might be sick. Gambit, who looks like he's not feeling very well either, puts a hand on her shoulder and Rogue closes the door.

Emma is alone now, and she hops off her bed to start unpacking her bags.


	5. Laundry

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **This chapter is a love letter of sorts to Katjen's "Bad Touch", one of the most amazing, shivers-down-your-spine, GUH-inducing fics I have ever read. Cookies for you if you can catch the reference.

If you have yet to read "Bad Touch", you are going to run, not walk, to Katjen's page and read the whole damn thing.

For SilkenPetal, who loves me.

* * *

There is a method to the madness of laundry day at Xavier's.

Every Saturday, one student is responsible for sorting all the dirty clothing and putting it all in the wash. Another moves them from the washing machines to the dryers, and a team of three is set to folding them all and taking them back to their respective owners.

This Saturday, Rogue has the dubious honour of being the first of these.

It's a relatively simple process. Everyone by this point has brought their baskets to the laundry room, so all she has to do is separate the lights ad the darks, shove them in the washing machines, dump in the soap, and twist the dials to 'Normal'.

After that, she's free to go. Jean will take over where she's left off.

Rogue is about half-way done when she comes across a pair of jeans.

They're from Remy's basket, and therefore, assumedly his. She turns the pockets inside out in accordance with the first rule of laundry at Xaviers: You always, _always_ check the pockets.

It's a good rule, helped along by the fact that if anything that was in the pockets damages the washing machine or any of the clothes, repairs and/or new clothes come out of your pocket.

So Rogue turns out the pockets, and a small piece of paper flutters to the ground at her feet.

She throws the jeans on to the mountain of dark clothing she's been building today, and then reaches to pick it up. It might be important, so she makes plans to swing by Remy's room after she's done here to drop it off.

She's not sure why she looks at what's written on it.

And after she sees what's written on it, she's really, really not sure.

_Claire_

_523-8646_

It's written in a loopy cursive that's definitely not Remy's.

This shouldn't bother her.

He comes home late on Saturday nights all the time – she should know, she's helped him sneak back in a couple of times – with names and numbers pressed in to his skin with black ink.

And yet, somehow, this is different.  
The writing on his arm is always gone Sunday mornings, the ink washed away and long gone down the drain.

This piece of paper is still here, Sunday afternoon. It's not going away.

This name and this number won't disappear down the drain like the others.

This shouldn't matter as much as it does.

It really shouldn't.

She rips the paper in half, in half, and in half again until all that's left is an E, a C, an R, and L, an A, an I, and a jumbled assortment of numbers.

She throws them in the garbage can where the lint goes.

And with that, she goes back to her mountains of laundry, humming some song she heard on the radio this morning about feeling fine at the end of the world.


	6. Wrong Number

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** A thank-you is in order to the great and wonderful Countess. We were discussing the strange habit a lot of fic writers have of writing Remy more like his TAS counterpart than the character we're presented with in Evo. This led in to talk about his relationship with his daddy, and authors' tendencies to forget or ignore the fact that in Evo, Remy isn't exactly on the greatest terms with Jean-Luc. We felt much better after ranting to each other, I assure you. The point is, as we fell in to a contented silence after exhausting the topic, this plot bunny mauled me big time. So yeah. Thanks Countess. You're a peach in a pie. For all you do, this Scott's for you.

This chapter's _dedication_, however, goes to Morgaine of the Faeries, because she is not only named after one of my favourite Arthurian characters, but a sweetheart as well.

* * *

It was a knock at the door that woke him, and made him realize that perhaps going out last night had not been such a good idea.

Last night's revelries (or what he could remember of them anyways) beat against his head in time with the fist at his door.

"Goway," he instructed, already knowing that this order wouldn't be obeyed. Remy might have been a lucky man, but not that lucky. The voice that replied was Scott's.

"Get your ass out of bed, Remy. It's half past noon."

A few choice curses were hurled back in response, but in a voice quiet enough that they wouldn't be heard by the man with the ruby quartz glasses on the other side of the door.

A little shifting and a few groans later, Remy was out of bed and pulling on a shirt as well as a pair of sunglasses. There was no way he would be able to take the fluorescent lights of the mansion in this state.

"Happy?" he asked upon opening the door. Scott's amusement, already considerable to start with, appeared to grow. Remy felt a sudden urge to throttle him, but refrained. It had nothing to do with the fact that standing upright was struggle enough and that all he really wanted was to go back to his bed and pass out for a few more hours. Honestly.

Scott just continued to smile, oblivious of the world of pain that he was so narrowly avoiding.

"I've got a favour to ask of you."

"And what would that be?"

"There's someone on the phone gabbing in French."

"So?"

"You're the only one here who's fluent. You want to go figure out what it is they want?"

"No. But I'm going to end up doing it anyway."

Scott's grin took a turn for the wicked.

"Those devilish good looks, and a brain too. How ever do you cope?"

xXx

A few moments later, Remy was in the Professor's office and picking up the phone. This would take five minutes tops, he figured. After that he'd be free to return to the dark, quiet, comfort, and especially the dark, of his room.

"'Allo?"

"About time, Remy. I was thinking the brat who answered the phone was never gonna get the hint and go get you."

Remy's jaw clenched.

The voice on the other end of the line was the one voice he had hoped never to hear again.

"Nice to hear from you too, Jean-Luc."

"Why, I do believe that's lip I'm hearing, boy."

"What do you want?"

"Blunt as always, huh?"

"Cut the crap. You wouldn't call unless it was something important, and I sure as hell didn't leave a forwarding address."

"If you seriously think you covered your tracks that well, you're deluded."

"Either tell me what you want, or I'm hanging up now."

"There's a job."

"There's always a job."

"Not like this."

"The answer is no."

"Don't get snappy with me, boy. I haven't even told you what the job is yet and you're already making assumptions."

"You're forgetting that I know how this all works. You don't need me; you need someone who can blow shit up."

"You always were a smart one."

"Go bug Henri."

"I need _you_."

"Didn't we just cover this?"

"You, your powers, whatever. I'll put up with one to have the other."

"Goodbye, Jean-Luc."

Remy made to hang up the phone, but was stopped by his adoptive father's next words.

"How's that girl of yours been doing? Rogue, right?"

"What about her?"

"Marius owes me a favour. I'd hate to waste it on her, but if that's what it takes to make you see reason--"

And that was it. Something snapped, and Remy was willing to bet it was his sanity, or what last vestiges of it he still possessed.

"Listen up, _Dad, _because I'm only going to say this once. If I hear so much as a rumour about you or any of your lackeys coming up to New York, if I so much as smell one of Marius' men anywhere near this school, I'll swear to whatever the hell you like that I'll FedEx them back to you piece by piece. Is that clear?"

He slammed the handset of the phone down on to the receiver, ending the call. This gave him the opportunity to observe his hands, both of which were shaking. Remy was now in dire need of a cigarette to steady his nerves. Plans to get very, very drunk tonight were already forming, but he knew that they would go unfulfilled. He instead set to making plans to get in touch with some of the contacts he'd made while working with Magneto. It wouldn't hurt to keep some ears to the ground and some eyes in the sky. Once he'd steadied himself a little, he left the office and headed for the kitchen where Scott and Rogue were fighting over who got the leftover spaghetti from last night's dinner. Upon noticing Remy's entrance, Scott bobbed his head in what might have passed for a polite greeting, and Rogue smiled a hello.

"I hear there was a phone call," she said.

"There was."

"So, what was it about?" Scott asked. Remy shrugged casually, an art he'd perfected long ago, and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

"Wrong number. Nothing to worry about."


	7. Carol

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** As always, much love to all of you who have taken the time to review this, even it if was just a couple words. Thank you, and please keep it coming. It's what keeps THESE coming.

This goes to marajade963 – her compliment about actually hearing Remy's voice (and making the comparison to 'The Ante' – high praise indeed!) in 'Wrong Number' made my freaking day.

* * *

The landscape of Rogue's mind is a funny place. It's never the same twice – a field, a riverbank, an office building, a living room . . . different places for different faces.

She never used to visit it often, but has found an excuse lately. Her name is Carol.

It wasn't like she had meant it to happen the way it did, but such sentiments are useless. They're futile thoughts, wastes of energy. The cold and hard truth is that the past is unchangeable.

_It had been a bright morning. An insignificant detail, really, but Rogue can remember the glare of the sun in her eyes as her scream echoed that of the young blonde girl she clutched. How could this all have gone so wrong? There had been screams, not just heard but felt in every pore and every bone before the girl went limp. There had been dead silence for a moment; eerie, morbid, and painful quiet. And then a low, quiet cry for a mother that wasn't hers rose up at the back of Rogue's skull._

What can be controlled is reaction, the future. Rogue tells herself this often, and she thinks she might actually be coming to believe it.

Today, her mind is a playground.

She passes the teeter-totters, the slide, and the climbing gym. There, sitting on the swings, is a lanky blonde girl in a yellow shirt and black pants kicking lazily at the sand beneath her feet.

"Hey Carol," she says softly, and the girl's head snaps up from her lap to offer a wan smile.

"Hey," she says back, just as softly.

Carol is tall and skinny to the point where it's flirting with emaciation. Her blonde hair hangs messily about her shoulders, and clear blue eyes are set in sockets far too deep for her face. She's exactly thirteen years, seven months, and sixteen days old today. Just as she's been every day for the past couple months.

"How you holding up in here?" It's the same question Rogue asks every time she visits. The response is always the same. Rogue asks anyways, and Carol always answers.

"Okay, I guess." Her gaze falls to her lap again as Rogue sits down in the swing next to her.

They sit in a silence that's surprisingly amicable. Both girls are comfortable simply staring at their feet. Carol purses her lips momentarily before pushing off against the ground and beginning to use the swing for the purpose it was designed.

"I talked with Scott again," she says, hair flying in her face as she swoops backwards. Rogue nods. From what she's heard, Scott's psyche has been a large support to Carol in her time here. That doesn't surprise her. It seems almost right that it's Scott who fills that role.

"I also met someone new."

Rogue looks up from her feet at this comment, eyes fixed on Carol as she flies forward.

"And who would that be?"

"He introduced himself as Gambit. His name's Remy though."

Rogue inhales slowly at this. She had guessed that Carol would eventually come across that psyche. And yet, somehow . . .

"Who is he?" Carol asks as she continues to pendulum.

"What do you mean?"

"Who is he to you?"

Rogue blinks.

"Why do you ask?"

Carol flips her head back while kicking frontward.

"Most of the people I meet here tell me who they are to you. Scott's your friend, your teammate. Kitty is your roommate. You used to live in a boarding house with Lance and a few other guys. Remy . . . " She pauses while reaching to touch the sky in the split second before freefall. "Remy didn't say."

Rogue considers this, wetting her lips as she wonders what she ought to say. She absently wishes that she'd had a little more warning before being confronted with this, though she knows that it really wouldn't have made a difference.

"What did he tell you?"

Carol ignores the question.

"I asked him, you know."

"Hmm?"

"I asked him what he was to you. Figured maybe he was just waiting for the question."

"What did he say?"

"He laughed."

"Laughed?"

"Yep. He laughed, and said 'Hell if I know, peh-teet'."

Carol butchers the foreign epithet – Boston mouths aren't made for French – but her meaning comes across none the less. Rogue resists the temptation to chew at her lip as Carol whizzes by her yet again, and tells herself firmly that her chest did NOT just constrict with the younger girl's last words.

"So, what is he to you?"

Rogue sighs before pushing off against the ground and swinging alongside Carol.

"You know what?" She replies, almost entertained (but mostly perplexed) by the realization, though the words come out bittersweetly, "I really don't know either."


	8. Medlab

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Dedicated to every single person who takes the time to read this chapter. Especially dedicated to those who have stuck around this long.

Just a short little one for now – I'm trying to ease my way back in to the Evolution universe. Please, enjoy.

* * *

He wakes up to the smell of disinfectant and bleached sheets, and to overwhelmingly bright fluorescent lights. It takes him a grand total of five seconds to realize that he's in the medlab, and five more to start feeling the pounding sensation in his head.

The slow reaction time is disappointing. It does, however, give him a clue as to what happened. As if on cue, memories start flooding back in quick succession, and the brief flashes of images gradually coalesce in to a whole as he works through them.

An early morning danger room session of capture the flag , or target retrieval and defense if you wanted to get technical about it. Two teams, two bases, two flags, and a hell of a lot in between. He'd gone in for the swipe with Cyclops as cover, and had been reaching for the target when he felt something brush the back of his neck and then . . . then everything went black.

"Damn," he mutters, sitting up and rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his palm. He knows what that blackout means. It's happened to him twice before, neither under desirable circumstances. The grimace that follows this thought is internal.

He checks his arm for IV lines, and as suspected there are none there. This sort of condition isn't something that needs treatment. He (and Piotr, and John, and a whole lot of other people for that matter) knows that you can't really do much else than wait to wake up again once you've been touched by Rogue.

He rolls his neck lazily from side to side, a way of easing out the cramp coming on due to the flat and generally useless pillow he'd been passed out on. It's as he turns his head to the left that he sees her. She's standing in the corner, leaning against the wall with her hands jammed where, were she not still in uniform, there would normally be pockets.

"Good morning," he tries, unintentionally phrasing it as a question.

There's a flash to her eyes that reminds him uncomfortably of what he sees when he looks in the mirror every morning, but it's what she says that sets him on edge.

"Tell me about Bella." Despite the demand, her eyes flit down to the floor like she doesn't really want to hear it after all.

His stomach turns over, but his face remains impassive and he doesn't say a word. Show nothing, tell less: a mantra driven in to him by Jean-Luc from even before the time he was old enough to understand the words.

"Please," she manages, and though it's barely a whisper he is shaken by the command.

He sets his jaw, mind already racing way ahead with questions lacking answers.

_She absorbed me. She must have caught something of Bella. What did she see? How much does she know? I have to tell her something. What can I say without really saying anything?_

When he finally speaks, it's casual.

"A girl I knew once."

It's not a lie. Bella was definitely a girl, and he certainly did know her once. He's not so sure he does anymore, but that elaboration isn't really necessary. It's showing, it's telling, and he knows better.

Rogue looks up at him, and the eerie sense that she can see his lies by omission crawls down his spine like a fever chill.

The point where his ring finger meets his hand starts to itch as though it remembers the ring that almost sat there, and cracks his knuckles to make it go away.

Instinct takes over, and his tone lightens in order to cover the discomfort and to paint over the awkwardness with the careful whitewash of a weak joke.

"You stick around for everyone like this, or am I just special?"

She frowns, crossing her arms over her ribcage. She doesn't answer.

He figures it's just as well. He's not sure he would want to hear it anyway.


	9. Juice

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** For saucydeviant, who not only makes for an excellent e-mail correspondent, but who apparently was converted to drabble-ism after number eight. Welcome to the fold, luv.

* * *

It became a habit for three of the former Acolytes to meet once a month for some breakfast and a game of catch-up at a local pancake house. A simple gesture, certainly, but living together (read: cooped up in a warehouse-like environment that barely passed for living quarters) for such a significant amount of time had a way of tying people together. Such bonds are difficult to break, even if said bonds are to people who tend to make you nuts.

John, Piotr, and Remy sat around their table with empty plates before them and warm cups of coffee in hand as Piotr finished talking about the latest in his life.

"So your family's doing well then," John summarized, dumping yet another creamer in to his coffee, which was almost eggshell white as it was. Piotr nodded as he took a sip of his own coffee (two cream, two sugar, please and thank you) and Remy pulled a face.

"John, that's disgusting."

John just beamed as he set the tiny container to the side amidst a small mountain of its fellows.

"I haven't even added the sugar yet. Talk to me about disgusting then." He took this opportunity to point at the jet-black drink Remy was about half-way through. "Besides, that's what? Your fourth cup this morning? I call _that_ an ulcer waiting to happen."

"I imagine that is better than a heart attack in a mug," Piotr observed mildly, to which John replied in a perfect Shakespearean-style English accent.

"I mislike this tag-teaming, good sirs. It does your honour ill."

He then, true to his word, stirred a ridiculous amount of sugar in to his concoction – it couldn't even rightfully be called coffee anymore – and took a generous first sip that ended with a large, loud AHHHH noise that could probably have been heard across the restaurant.

"Remy. Your turn." He was back in his own accent now, and apparently oblivious to the looks being thrown his way by their fellow patrons. "What's been up with you?"

Remy shrugged.

"Nothing, really."

The lie was obvious. While both John and Piotr were only vaguely informed as to Remy's family situation, they knew enough to know something was always up there. And even if there wasn't (which, as established, was doubtful), Remy entertained an active social life that yielded all manner of interesting little tidbits, if not epic sagas worthy of Homer.

It was John who ended up calling shenanigans.

"Come on. I don't buy that for a second." John turned to his other companion, seeking the truth. "He's hiding something, isn't he?"

Piotr considered over a sip.

"If you were to ask him about a certain member of the X-Men, I imagine you might uncover something."

John giggled, clapping his hands with glee.

"The resident vampire! I knew it. I _knew_ it!" He leaned in towards Remy, placing his elbows on the table and his chin over interlaced fingers. "Tell me _**everything**_."

"Thanks Piotr," Remy muttered, his grip tightening around his cup.

Piotr himself just smiled. It was hard to tell if he was really that naïve, or just that devious. Whichever of the two, he blew over his cup in a likely futile effort to cool his drink as he clarified things.

"I was referring to Kurt and the mission that you recently completed together, but I suppose that the latest of happenings between you and Rogue may be of interest as well."

"And what might those happenings be, Remy darling?" John goaded. "Inquiring minds want to know."

There was silence.

"Okay, I'll guess then. She's figured out a way to control her powers and you've managed to get her pregnant and now you're getting kicked out of the mansion for deflowering the young lady who, for all intensive purposes, is the Badger-man's daughter." He took a second to think before making an addition to this statement. "Wait, no. You'd be dead already if that were the case."

He poked Remy as if checking to make sure he had not, in fact, just shared breakfast with a specter. John's inspection earned him a sharp flick to the forehead, which seemed to serve as proof of Remy being firmly in this temporal plane.

"Well then, I'm stumped. What is it? What's going on between the two of you?"

That quiet returned. Piotr had expected as much as soon as the conversation had taken this turn -- his friend always seemed to clam up whenever the topic of Rogue came up, and this instance was obviously no exception. He had his own personal suspicions why, but kept them to himself. Respect? Blackmail material? Both?

John was reaching out to poke Remy yet again.

"She's a friend," Remy finally admitted, though it was more to his coffee cup than to the people around the table. "A good friend."

The smirk from John ought to have set off warning bells. Alas, it was already too late once he started to talk.

"Are we sure about this, Remy dear?"

"Yes."

While Piotr noted the slight offness to Remy's intonation within that single syllable, John barreled on without seeming to have caught it.

"_I _know how we can find out."

"Really."

"Really really."

Piotr's mouth twitched at the left corner in to a sort-of, almost, maybe half-smile.

"And how do you mean to discover this?"

"Didja know you can read pulp like tea leaves?" John asked, obviously attempting to be enigmatic while running his finger around the rim of an empty glass in front of Remy that was lined with orange juice residue. The effect was ruined by the smile of rabid proportions that was rapidly infecting his face. Remy slapped his had away.

"That so?" He didn't sound as though he cared much, but John nodded anyways.

"Yep. Old Australian trick."

Piotr let out a chortle as he set down his coffee.

"Forgive me if I choose not to believe you."

"Watch. You'll see."

He lifted the glass up as though presenting an offering to some unseen deity.

"Oh, great and wise orange juice!" He cried, gaining the attention of numerous other restaurant patrons . . . again. "Reveal to us the true nature of Remy's feelings towards that skunk-headed Rogue that he so obviously has the hots for but refuses to cop to because it would mean actually facing those feelings and everything that goes with them and goodness knows he can't handle any of that!"

It was Piotr's arm that stopped Remy from slugging John right there, but this small mercy went unnoticed by the self-styled Sybil, as he was busy placing the cup upside down on a napkin. He tapped the bottom, twisted it three times counter clockwise, and put it right-side up again before staring it to its depths with a frightening amount of concentration.

"It's clearly a gun," he finally announced, tipping the glass so the others could see. Piotr took the cup in hand and squinted. He rotated it a few degrees in both directions, and shook his head.

"I am seeing a hammer."

"Hate to break it to you guys," Remy interrupted archly, retrieving the glass and placing it down on the table once more with a touch more force than was necessary. "But sometimes orange juice pulp is just orange juice pulp."

John regarded him somberly.

"That's not what Freud would say."

"Well, Freud had issues."

"That, I think, is putting it mildly," Piotr quipped as he glanced at his watch.

"Time to go?" Remy asked, and there was more than a little trace of hope there. Piotr took the hint and decided to indulge him.

"Yes. It is getting late."

An unimpressed and bordering on moping John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms huffily.

"What? My company not good enough for the likes of you?"

"Forgive us John. The world might be in need of saving some time today, and I do not like to think of what might happen if we were not on call."

"I suppose I have to let you off the hook then." John sniffed as he fished a handful of crumpled bills out of his pocket and dropped them on the table. "And it _was_ a gun. Orange juice pulp doesn't lie."

Remy followed suit, pulling out a wallet and selecting a crisp ten to leave behind.

"Orange juice pulp doesn't TALK, either. Which is more than I can say for you."

"You love me anyhow, Remy. The sooner you realize that, the better off we'll be."

The two of them got up, continuing to banter in this fashion as they left the table.

Piotr smiled ruefully as he dropped some money on the table and rose to follow his two friends, but paused for a moment as he regarded Remy's cup once more. He picked it up, looking in it once more; there was the hammer he had seen. He tilted his head to the side, allowing his eyes to go out of focus. That revealed the gun that John had seen. As he focused his eyes once more, the hammer reappeared.

He pursed his lips. Hammer and gun.

He thought back to his sister, little Illyana, who had gone through a phase in which she'd fancied herself able to read tea leaves. She gave none of the family any peace until they'd permitted her to stare down the dregs of their morning tea and come to a solemn conclusion about what lay in their futures based on how the leaves fell.

According to her, a hammer meant triumph over adversity. Conversely, a gun meant danger, strife, and catastrophe on the horizon.

There was a strange, foreboding sensation at this thought that he imagined was what Jean and the rest of them meant when they talked of a goose walking over their grave.

_Reveal to us the true nature of Remy's feelings for the skunk-haired Rogue . . . _

A hammer and a gun.

Both victory and chaos.

_Orange juice pulp doesn't lie._

"Piotr!" Remy called from the door of the restaurant, where he stood waiting with John. "You coming or what?"

This call back in to reality seemed to banish the goose, or whatever creature it was that had stumbled its way across Piotr's final resting place.

"Yes. I am," he said, and he placed the glass down to go join them.


	10. Suicide King

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** For Elirrina, who was so good as to point out a rather glaring mistake in "Juice". It was much appreciated, m'dear.

A piece I intended to write literally two years ago. Back when I was first getting in to the Evo fandom, I was struck by the fact Remy seemed to associate himself with the King of Hearts in this particular universe. Ever taken the time to actually _look _at one? I did, and found my romantic inclinations and associations put aside as some darker overtones made themselves apparent.

* * *

The King of Hearts had always made her suspicious, ever since he first handed it to her in what anyone else might have construed as an attempt on her life. Blazing bright, she'd seen the suit and face and tucked the information away in the back of her mind as she was held in thrall by the admittedly pretty face that was right in front of her.

The next time she was given that card was upon his arrival at the mansion a good while later. She'd come up to her room to grab something only to find a King of Hearts sitting there on her pillow.

She'd caught the message behind it – there was an apology there that he couldn't bring himself to say aloud.

Sorry for New Orleans.  
Sorry for leaving you in the lurch with Apocalypse.

There might even have been a sorry for taking so damn long to get here, but she couldn't be absolutely sure about that one.

Against what was probably her better judgment, she'd forgiven him in that same language. A quick trip down to the corner store had armed her with her own deck of cards, and she'd slipped the Queen of Hearts under his door while he was in the Danger Room reportedly getting his ass handed to him by Logan.

(Remy later claimed that he'd won, but Logan had laughed out loud at that.)

_Why the King of Hearts, Remy?_ she'd asked him once a sufficient amount of time had passed and made broaching the subject acceptable.

He had only given that strange, empty smile that he pasted on every once in a while.

_It fits. That's why._

He'd wandered off after that, as he had a habit of doing at crucial moments, leaving Rogue to consider his mysterious answer.

Though she'd told no-one, that King of Hearts that he'd left in her room was now tucked away in a shoebox beneath her bed that was home to assorted trinkets she felt the need to hold on to. If pressed, she might have admitted that the Queen from Bloodmoon Bayou was in there too.

After that conversation, she'd returned to her room and pulled out that box. Digging through the photos and letters, she found the King and ran her fingers over its surface as she tried to glean Remy's meaning.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to the King's hands. She'd never noticed it before, but the sword he bore was plunged deep in to his head. She imagined this was one of those things that escaped notice because people saw it so often, but that didn't make this any easier to realize. She'd never noticed this before. She had been looking, but not seeing.

The King's face revealed nothing, remaining impassive in the midst of a suicide.

_He's killing himself, _Rogue realized. _He's hurting, he's dying, and he's not showing a bit of it._

A fist that had been tightening within her chest simply gripped harder, a physical and mental vice that grew tighter the longer she looked at that sword.

She put the card back in the box, though now bearing a couple tear stains for the wounds that the King himself would not (or could not – who knew?) mourn.


	11. Say Goodbye

For skyrogue, because my last line are apparently cult-worthy

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** The first of these is for skyrogue, because my last lines are apparently cult-worthy. It's news to me, but thanks anyhow. And since there's really two here, the second is for jutwfiniei, who paid me a great compliment by saying I do honour to the Evo name.

* * *

When he tells her, he doesn't offer any explanation.

She kind of wishes he would.

Instead, she gets a chilled outline of the facts – he's knows he's leaving, he's not sure where to, he's not sure when he'll be back. She has her suspicions about what's going on, but can't bring herself to give them voice. She's afraid that maybe she's right, and that he's heading back home to that very literal den of thieves he'd fought so hard to escape. More than that though, she's angry that he doesn't trust her enough to be honest with her, regardless of what the truth actually is.

"Have a good time," she says, but the words are dry and barely manage to escape the back of her throat.

"Not promising anything." It hurts like a bad joke. She's not going to point it out though, because that means admitting just how deeply she's dug herself in to this. She just crosses her arms and thinks of hard things. She wills herself strong by association.

He lingers in the doorway, looking back as though asking her to stop him, challenge him. She doesn't. She knows it's only out of some sick sense of pride, but she'll not give him the satisfaction of reducing her to begging, even if there's a part of her that's screaming for her to do it. If he can't give her they honesty she wants, she wont give him the validation he's looking for either.

It's better this way, she tells herself. It has to be.

He walks out.

xXx

When he tells her, he doesn't offer any explanation.

He's not very good at them anyway.

Instead, he goes out of his way to be vague. A lot of _not sures, maybes, _and _sometimes_ are spoken in an attempt to hide the truth – it's hit the fan back home. Again.

"Have a good time," she says, but there's a distance to her words that nearly makes him ache. He steels himself by remembering that she deserves better, and even if he earns her ire for a while, at least she'll never know.

"Not promising anything." It sounds empty, even to him, and he tries to remind himself one more time that he's doing the right thing. Involving her is the wrong thing to do, especially since she'd been so proud of him for the way he managed to separate himself from his past. In a moment of rare intimacy, she'd even confided in him that it gave her hope that she might be able to rip herself away from her own someday. Though he's a thief down to his very marrow, he can't bring himself to take that from her.

He waits in the doorway, silently begging her to say something, anything. To call him back, or even call him out. He doesn't get so much as a _take care_, an _I'll miss you, _or even a _why. _He's at a loss to explain why this bothers him so much.

It's better this way, he tells himself. It has to be.

He walks out.


	12. A Mess, I Guess

**TITLE: **Stacked Deck

**SUMMARY:** Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.

**RATING: **K+

**DISCLAIMER: **I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Apparently, I have absolutely no respect at all for timeline or continuity , a ficlet set during "Cajun Spice". Dedicated to Scribble, who requested it once upon a time.

* * *

For a while, she'd actually thought there'd been something there.

She'd managed to get past the kidnapping and their violent confrontation in the train. They'd even talked some to the point where she had been growing less and less leery of him. Hell, the two of them had even made a fairly good team taking on the Rippers at the jazz club.  
Rogue had even been willing to give him the benefit of a doubt with the whole crime family thing too. She didn't come from an exactly perfect pedigree herself. He'd been right; the two of them had been down the same roads.

And then she absorbed him, and everything she'd believed fell apart.

She paces restlessly by the edge of Bloodmoon Bayou now - just out of the sightlines of the cameras, of course – with his betrayal fresh and cutting. It plays over and over in her head: _you're not a friend, he used you. You're not a friend, you're a way in._

But as she paces, his memories sort themselves a little more.  
Jean-Luc's a rank bastard. He'd scooped a very young Remy up off the streets of New Orleans and proceeded to make him a tool for the Guild. There's no real affection, just a recognition of an asset. The sense of obligation that drives Remy back is screwed up, and Remy knows it. He doesn't like it. He does it anyways. He's got to help his father because it's either that or leave him at the mercy of the Rippers.

Rogue bites her lip.

He might be manipulative and cruel, but in his own weird way Remy just might be a better son than she ever was a daughter. None of this excuses him for anything, but it explains him. He does bad things for a living. This particular bad thing, however, is towards as good an end as he can conceive.  
Rogue looks up to the Rippers' house. Searching through the pieces of Remy's mind that she now has, she knows it's safe to say he's doing something reckless and stupid. From what she knows thanks to the Rippers she's absorbed, Remy's more than likely not going to make it out okay on his own.  
She quits pacing. Growling, and sounding eerily like Logan for a second, Rogue kicks viciously at the ground.

She starts running up towards the house at full tilt.

The idiot's going to need a hand.


End file.
